


Dead and Not Dead

by Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, Pseudo-Necrophilia, Wound Fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-09-23
Updated: 2000-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-11 11:17:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caspian has Methos the only way he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead and Not Dead

Dark wisps of smoke slashed through with fiery ashes danced across the  
wasteland, obscuring from sight the torn wreckage of the temporary camp and the detritus  
of eviscerated corpses. Coming closer were the calls of the hyenas and jackals, the  
scavengers of the desert, come to pick clean the mortal remains of those who had once  
sought to scrape some semblance of existence from the unforgiving dead ground.

Caspian sullenly picked his way through the remnants of the caravan's lead litter.  
The wooden poles were shattered as the cowards who carried it dropped the covered  
palanquin in order to delay the end of their pathetic lives. Their ravaged bodies lay only a  
few feet away from that of their leader. Caspian sneered at their surprised faces, frozen in  
a rictus of anguish and awe. They had died, screaming like women. A hyena was  
snuffling at the nearest corpse, his yellow eyes trained on Caspian in the eventuality the  
human tried to deny him his meal.

"Take it, brother. It's more than he deserved." As if he understood the strange  
language, the animal disregarded Caspian with a snort and began his feast. Other  
scavengers crawled out of the smoky shadows to gather maggot-like upon the corpses.  
Leaving his four-legged brothers to their scrounging, Caspian returned to his own.

The white curtains were shredded and soiled, completely worthless now but for the  
evidence of the fight its sole occupant had put up for his life. White billowing robes were  
crimson from the man's blood, but his face was smooth and unmarked from his fight.  
Beneath his neatly trimmed beard, his young face appeared to be only sleeping, but the  
ruin of his body below his neck revealed the truth behind this last illusion. A long curl of  
blue-black hair had fallen over one eye, casting a dark shadow over his strong jaw. His  
bejeweled fingers glinted with gore, near gluing his hand to the hilt of the fine-crafted  
sword clutched near his chest in a death-frozen final salute. This one did not run. This  
one was a warrior.

A wild hound nosed around Caspian's foot, attracted by the strong scent of blood  
rising from the body. With a sound of disgust, he kicked the beast hard in the stomach,  
sending it yelping back to its pack. "This one is not for you," he glared down at the hound  
until it backed down and returned to squabble over the choicest bits of the dead leader's  
servants.

Crouching beside the corpse, Caspian sheathed his sword. With the back of his  
hand he wiped the curl from the man's eye, tucking it gently back behind his ear. The lock  
of hair was more soft and more gentle to the touch than the fabric that clung bloodied to  
his dead body. The skin was still warm from the hot afternoon sun, but it was a false  
warmth. Soon the flesh would be cool and hard, like any other corpse, but still he felt  
alive. And so beautiful. For a few moments Caspian sat smoothing his knuckles against  
the trim line of the corpse's beard, thinking. A warrior didn't deserve to be desecrated in  
his death. He deserved to be honored. Bending forward, he reverently placed a friendly  
kiss to the smooth, pale cheek.

Leaving the valuable jewels and the sword where they belonged, Caspian stood  
and stalked over to where Kronos was kicking more kindling into a burning tent. Nodding  
silently to his undying brother, Caspian thrust one of the broken litter poles into the fire.  
The dry wood fairly exploded into flames. He took his torch back to the dead man,  
swinging it threateningly at any beast that stepped into his path.

The yellow-orange glare of the torch broke through the thick smoke where the sun  
could not reach. Now Caspian could see just how pale the man was. Little wonder he  
kept to the shaded sanctuary of the palanquin; with skin like that he would have baked in  
the harsh desert sun. His face was unblemished, but this man was not some weak,  
pampered prince. His slashed clothing revealed tough muscle won through hard combat  
and a harder life. No, this one did not deserve to be carrion.

Caspian tossed the torch onto the remains of the litter. The edges of the white  
curtains evaporated like water under the intense heat of the torch, but the wood poles  
directed enough of the fire so that it wound its way around the man in destructive waves.  
His pale skin darkened and bubbled under the heat; his black hair shone amber, then  
shriveled. The air became choked with soot and the stench of scorched earth and flesh,  
rising like a wailing spirit from the corpse as it was consumed by the fire. The scavenger  
animals gave a wide berth to the pyre, taking the easier meat. Caspian watched the man  
burn until it was dark, and only the charred bones remained.

"Glorious raid, my brother," a silky crimson voice whispered in Caspian's ear.

Caspian smiled as the memory of the people's screams echoed in his mind. "Yes,  
Kronos," he agreed.

Kronos laughed, his hawk eyes made brilliant in the smoldering light of the pyre.  
"Silas and I are brining our bounty back to camp. We'll divide it later. Come Caspian, and  
bring Methos with you." Kronos tugged lightly on Caspian's arm, eager to leave the  
caravan's camp now that most everything that wasn't stolen was burnt.

"In a moment, Kronos." Caspian pulled his arm out of Kronos' grasp. "I want to  
watch the fire more." Kronos looked deep into the ashes of the palanquin, his eyes  
running negligently over the sooty bones. Then he reached out and gave a soft squeeze to  
Caspian's shoulder. Kronos didn't fully understand his wild brother, but he respected his  
wishes. With a knowing nod, he turned around and signaled to Silas that they were  
leaving. Caspian didn't watch as he mounted his horse and rode off into the desert. He  
only watched the light play off the sloping curve of the man's thigh bone.

When even the tiniest ember had consumed itself, and nothing was left but the  
star-bleached black powder of ashes, Caspian left the man's side. Whatever he was  
looking for within the depth of the pyre had not been there, no more than it had been there  
in that dead face. Whatever fascination he had felt for the victim of his brothers' greed  
was broken by the night, allowing him to wander away from the site, but the memories of  
the man's face stuck with him still.

Caspian found his horse with Methos' nibbling the sparse grass at the edge of the  
camp. Methos was no where to be found. Remembering Kronos' request that he bring  
Methos with him, Caspian set off to find the man.

He had made an almost complete circuit of the ruined encampment before he  
found his brother. Methos was stretched out on his back upon the sand, a white line  
against the white sand. He almost blended in with the landscape had not the knife in his  
chest caught some passing ray of light and captured Caspian's eye. His right arm was  
outstretched, pointing at a small girl with Methos' sword stuck through her chest. She  
may have killed Methos, but at least he would be coming back.

Caspian first pulled Methos' blade out of her body, wiping the blood off the metal  
and onto her torn tunic. Half her face was eaten off, but the rest of her was hardly  
touched by the animals. Probably not as tasty as the rest of her face made her out to be.  
Caspian smiled a little at her distorted face, then slung Methos' sword over his shoulder  
and strolled over to Methos' body. Sinking to his knees, he placed the hilt into Methos'  
hand and curled his fingers around it. It looked somewhat more appropriate that he had  
died with his sword in his hand rather than a slave's knife in his chest.

The hood was thrown back from Methos' head, and his mask was pushed  
completely off his face. His twilight blue-painted face looked boyish in the repose of  
death. A ragged hunk of his brown hair partially eclipsed the white half of his face. The  
image of the dead man's visage flashed through Caspian's mind, momentarily replacing  
Methos'. But Methos wasn't like the man. Methos wasn't really dead. All Caspian had to  
do to bring him back to life was to pull the knife out of his chest and wait for the magic to  
heal him.

His hand almost shaking, Caspian reached out and brushed away the hair from  
Methos' face. He shivered when his fingers felt the unnatural warmth in his brother's skin.  
The sun had set hours ago, but still his skin burned with life. Alive, but not alive. Dead,  
but not. Unnatural, and yet the most natural thing Caspian had seen in his whole life.

Following the long line of Methos' jaw, Caspian drew his fingers down Methos'  
neck to the knife in his chest. He dipped his fingers in the small pool of blood that had  
gathered around the wound before the death had halted its movement. It was crusty on  
the surface, but when he pressed deeper he broke through to a thick sludge beneath. He  
could feel the hard blade where it pierced the skin. Checking Methos' face, as if he would  
react, Caspian pressed even deeper, pushing against the flesh around the invading blade.  
There was a resistance in the torn muscle, but with a harsh shove two of his fingers slipped  
inside the hole.

Caspian gasped at the sensation of being inside his brother. The dead flesh pressed  
against his fingers even as he wiggled them around to stretch the opening. He could feel  
the sharp shards of bone where the knife had shattered through his chest. Everything was  
smooth and rough, torn and whole, yielding and resisting. The only constants among the  
myriad of sensations running from his fingers to his brain were hot and wet. Everything  
inside radiated the same deceptively living heat, slicked over with the still blood that sat  
waiting for the life to return and make it course again.

It was incredible. The only word Caspian could think to describe it was 'erotic'.  
The intimate sensation of being inside, the thrusting of his fingers as though he wished he  
could crawl up inside and sleep there, it was all sending strange ideas to his mind, and  
more than enough to his penis. Inside his rough raiding pants Caspian could feel his penis  
harden and lengthen, making his groin feel tight and hot. He never would have thought he  
could get it up for a corpse, but this was no corpse. This was Methos.

Caspian groaned aloud at the thought, but his treacherous mind repeated it.  
Methos. Methos. This is Methos you have your hand in. This is Methos. His hand  
twitched, and he longed to be able to thrust his whole fist inside that tiny wound. Or even  
better, his aching erection.

"No."

With a shudder, Caspian pulled his fingers out of Methos' chest. They came with a  
slick sound; the wound sucked hard on them as though to convince them to come back  
inside. He was just about to wipe the blood off onto his shirt, but an impulse grabbed him  
and he sucked the digits inside his mouth. The blood bit his tongue with its metallic-sour  
taste, and his penis jumped in his pants when he swallowed the red liquid. Caspian bit  
down hard on his fingers with a groan, using the pain to distract himself from his desires.  
It wasn't right to take his brother without him being awake to enjoy it. He didn't know  
why it was wrong, but it was. Kronos had said...

But Kronos wasn't here. And Methos would never know...

"No."

Caspian bent down and pulled Methos into his arms. He had fully intended to  
simply toss his brother over his shoulder and get him back to the horses, but somehow the  
thought never made it to his mouth as he found himself nuzzling the side of Methos' face,  
alternating kisses with small nudges of his cheek and chin. The smooth feeling of Methos'  
shaved face, the total non-resistance of his slack body, made it impossible for him to stop.  
Every caress brought a new level of perception, of awareness of his brother's body. How  
his perpetually smooth face was actually rough with a slight stubble. How the line of his  
jaw matched perfectly the high angled line of his cheek. How his nose was just the tiniest  
bit crooked. How his long neck was supple as a horse's, but as gracefully carved as a  
bird's. How the divot in his lip was the smoothest area of his whole body, and the dip of  
his throat the softest. How pliant his muscles, how delightfully heavy his body. How  
perfect he was.

Caspian could almost imagine the pulse that would be wild beneath his lips had his  
brother been aware of what was happening. His own mind was reeling from the  
overwhelming desire he felt for Methos. Falling back onto the yielding bed of sand,  
Caspian pulled Methos' body on top of his, groaning as a thigh fell heavily just where he  
needed it. He rubbed up against the hard muscle there, delighting in the give of the flaccid  
limb. It was like a soft brush of air against his erection, but substantial enough to give him  
enough pleasure to want more. He groaned aloud, tossing his head back as he pressed  
Methos' unresponding lips to his throat. The hard pommel of the knife pressed into his  
chest, scratching harder than a fingernail across a nipple. He almost shouted as he thrust  
again, nearly upsetting Methos' body.

Caspian couldn't hold out much longer. His body was gripped with a need to  
reach completion and soon before his better judgment prevented him from doing so.  
Pressing Methos harder against him, Caspian pushed his body down his chest. The hilt  
dug into his skin, cutting a long line of rasping pain over his skin without even breaking  
the surface. He almost released his pleasure when the sharp metal poked against his  
equally hard erection. Biting his lip, he concentrated on keeping control long enough to  
feel his penis inside Methos' body.

Releasing one hand from it's death-grip hold on Methos, Caspian quickly opened  
his belt and pants, pushing them far enough down to release his erection. He allowed  
himself a single caressing squeeze before he released his cock and felt around the dagger,  
searching for the wound. It had opened somewhat with his fingering and with the rough  
treatment of the knife, but it still only allowed three of his fingers inside. He fiddle a little  
with the idea of taking out the blade, but he found he preferred it inside. Steeling his  
control with a hissed breath between clenched teeth, he guided his cock into the wound,  
following the path of the knife into his chest.

The cool hard glance of sharp, deadly blade against his cock did not deter his  
enjoyment of the sensation. All that his fingers had felt was multiplied against the turgid  
flesh as he thrust deeper than his fingers had reached. Methos' dead weight countered his  
tentative thrusts until he found a rhythm. The bone shards scraped against his flesh,  
making him snarl with pain, but the sweet, wet, sucking give of it all turned the small pain  
into mind-altering pleasure. He didn't last long, and crushing Methos' body to his hips, he  
thrust deep, deeper, until his ripped through more muscle and impaled himself completely  
in the death wound. Tender flesh tore around his spurting cock as it split apart under the  
assault. He shouted the wild rush of his completion to the night sky, and a chorus of night  
hunters and jackals picked up the call with a cacophony of howls and yips.

When he came down from whatever mountain he had landed upon, Caspian was  
uniquely aware of the glove-like pressure around his penis. As he slowly rolled Methos  
over and off of him, his softening erection came painfully slow out of the wound, bringing  
the knife with it. It seemed that Methos almost didn't want him to go as the limp arms  
caught on Caspian's shoulders and his chest convulsed around the tip of Caspian's  
blood-coated cock. The gripping of healing muscle brought an after-wave of pleasure  
surging up Caspian's back. With a sad moan, he pulled completely out of the wet heat and  
dropped onto his back. The knife fell with a muffled thump to the sand.

Caspian didn't have time to bask in the satiated glow; he shook the lethargy from  
his limbs and did his best to cover himself up and recover from his savage orgasm. By the  
time Methos was coughing and sitting up, he thought he had himself pretty well returned  
to normal. The grin, though, he couldn't seem to be able to get rid of. The desire to kiss  
Methos' cheek as the man stood up also didn't want to go away.

"How long have I been out?" Methos asked, his eyes raking over the smoldering  
remains of the camp.

Caspian restrained the insane giggle that wanted to erupt from his throat. Long  
enough for me to fuck you. "Long enough," he said aloud.

Methos' roving eyes finally returned to Caspian. They narrowed slightly as his  
scrutiny increased. Caspian bit the tip of his tongue, somewhat assured by the double  
taste of his blood and the after taste of Methos' that clung to his mouth. He could tell that  
his eagle eyes missed nothing, that Methos knew something had happened but not what.

"Where's Kronos and Silas?" he asked, his eyes still trying to read Caspian's  
unreadable face.

"Camp." Caspian kept his words short, afraid that his voice would give up too  
much.

Methos took one long stride, coming up very close to Caspian. His nose twitched  
as he breathed in deeply. Caspian stood still, his head tilted back a bit, as he let Methos  
breathe his fill. This close, the desert heat of the man made his skin burn. Methos had  
been warm before, but now he was on fire. Against his will, Caspian felt his body  
responding, subtly leaning forward to be closer to Methos even as he feared that Methos  
would find out everything that had happened.

Apparently satisfied, Methos stepped back out of his space, and again Caspian was  
able to breath. "You look well and truly fucked, my brother," Methos said accusingly.

"I--"

Methos turned away and gestured to the fallen girl. "You are a sick bastard; she's  
hardly even out of the cradle." He shook his head in mock disbelief and gave Caspian a  
sly half smile and wink. "Her face is half-gone, Caspian."

It took a moment for Caspian to register what Methos had implied. The slave girl?  
She was dead. That was disgusting. He was about to deny it, but the knowing  
grin on Methos' face made him rethink. At least if Methos thought what he thought, then  
he wouldn't think Caspian had really done what he had done. "It wasn't her face I was  
interested in." He tried to give a grin, but it felt crooked and alien on his face.

Methos laughed softly and patted Caspian on the arm. He picked up his sword and  
mask and walked towards where the horses were eating. Caspian breathed a quick sigh of  
relief that he had gotten away with it. He started to walk towards Methos, but he turned  
around at the last second and picked up the knife. Stashing it away at the back of his belt,  
he walked up to join Methos with that silly grin back on his face.

As the two horsemen rode off back to camp, a lone jackal, thin and scraggly with  
patches of fur gone from his lean hide, walked through the smoking tents, a long, scorched  
bone in his mouth.


End file.
